Want To Disco? Wanna See Me Disco?
by who won the race back home
Summary: Sam does some homework at Santana's house, but needs music to help him concentrate.


It's Thursday after glee and Sam is sitting in Santana's living room, which is in a house that could not be considered anywhere _near _the bad side of town, no matter how much she tries to say it is. But anyways, yeah, living room. Santana's house. Doing homework. She says it's because there is no way in hell a fucking dwarf is getting out of this stupid town and she isn't, so she needs to work her ass of to get into a good school far, far away. Sam just listens. He's only been dating her a week and has figured out that it's best just to listen to Santana, because she talks _a lot_, but isn't really looking to have many conversations, which is fine by him. He's more of a listener anyways

But yeah. Lima Heights. Living room. Homework. Sam is trying to write a paper on the causes of World War I, but he can't remember what all the letters in that MAIN acronym stand for and he didn't write it down because he was too busy drawing a dinosaur with a jet pack on during class. (His folks got him and his brother and sister the complete anthology of Calvin and Hobbes for Christmas. It's the only thing he asked for since money's been a little tighter since they moved to Ohio, and he figured that Stacy and Stevie would really love it once they got a little older. It was the first thing he really enjoyed trying to read as a kid, even if it was super frustrating most of the time). Whatever Santana is working on looks like rocket science or something, but it's probably just trig.

And it's really quiet. Like, scary quiet. Like, aliens, or a serial killer, or _her parents_ are going to come through the door and kill them quiet. And it's making it really hard to concentrate on what Germany did to piss everyone off so much.

"Can I put on some music? I keep feeling like Freddy Krueger is going to pop up behind me and stab me to death or something," he says

She levels him a look that pretty much says 'you're an idiot,' but pushes over her laptop and manages to not call him a stupid name.

"Don't pick something shitty, Samwise."

He spoke to soon. But at least that one's a repeat. He's pretty sure that's almost a sign of affection from her. Sam flips open the computer and loads Youtube, because he's about 99.9% sure Santana won't have what he's looking for on her iTunes. He pulls up a Bikini Kill playlist that's mostly their stuff, but has a few Le Tigre and MEN tracks thrown on there too, for some reason. Whatever, Santana might like those. He went through a serious grunge phase freshman year, and in trying to learn everything he could about Nirvana he stumbled on the "Kurt Smells Like Teen Spirit" story and Kathleen Hanna.

He clicks on "Magnet," one of his favorite songs. It's perfect for doing work, 'cause it's loud and fast, and he can't really understand the words so they won't distract him from figuring out what Archduke Franz Ferdi-

"Why does everyone I know listen to awful music?"

Sam snaps out of his daze. "What?"

"It's-y'know, nevermind. Just turn it off. Whoever that is sounds like she is being stabbed in the throat with rusty nails."

"How can you not like Bikini Kill? You're, like, the angriest chick I know. No offense."

Santana glares at him. "Just because I'm angry doesn't mean I listen to atrocious music that seems like it is being played by epileptic gorillas."

"So what? Alanis Morissette and Adele and, I don't know, Paula Cole or whatever are more legit because their angry sounds prettier?" He's almost getting pissed over this.

"Paula Cole? The Dawson's Creek lady?" Santana says, looking like she's ready to outright laugh at him.

"She was pissed on her first album."

"Why do you even know that?"

Sam sighs, trying to avoid a fight over nothing. "There's not a lot to do in Tennessee, but we _do_ have the Internet."

Santana finally breaks after that, laughing behind her hand, but he doesn't mind, she looks pretty cute doing it. On her laptop, the track switches over to "Rebel Girl." Santana pauses for a second and actually seems to _listen. _

"This isn't half bad, Swayze," she says after the song gets to the chorus.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's almost listenable."

Sam beams. He feels like he's won without even having to do anything. She gives him another nasty look, but it doesn't even phase him."I kinda think of you whenever this pops up on my shuffle."

Unfortunately he says this just as the "They say she's a dyke, but I know," lyrics plays over the tinny speakers.

"What the fuck, Sam? Are you trying to say I'm some scuzzy dyke?"

She moves to smack him upside the ducks her open palm. "Jesus, Santana, no. Are you even listening to it? It's all about this, like, super strong, super awesome girl. She thinks this girl is cool."

Santana sinks back into her chair and is quiet for the rest of the song. By the end of it, there is this goofy grin on her face, and she looks like she's a million miles away. The next song that plays is "Hot Topic." Santana snaps out of her daze and looks back at him, her eyes almost warm.

"Shit. This is practically _good._"

"It's Kathleen Hanna, y'know, rusty nails-it's her band after Bikini Kill."

She nods and listens for a few more seconds. "I could almost dig this. Keep this stuff going and maybe you can make out with me after I finish my pre calc."

Sam blinks at her for a moment. "Sure. Le Tigre it is."

He clicks on a different playlist that's all Le Tigre and then flips through a few pages of his history textbook, trying desperately to even _start _his essay.

"P.S. The 'M' stands for militarization," she says, pointing to a paragraph in the book.

"Thanks, Santana."

The song changes to "Deceptacon" and Sam swears he can see her tap her pen in time to it.


End file.
